


Foul Bird of Wickedness

by Euny_Sloane, zombified_queer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Not Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Debates About Morality, Falling In Love, M/M, Noah's Ark, minor alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Once upon a time a Serpent told one of the good guys, "You can't kill children." And when the angel gave a grim nod that said, yes, in fact they could kill children, The Serpent took in children to spare them from the flood.Which means Aziraphale's assignment on Noah's ark just got a lot more complicated.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Foul Bird of Wickedness

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Euny_Sloane for doing the artwork in this fic.
> 
> And another huge thank you to my lovely beta, fluffy_teddybear

Shem, Ham, and Japthet secure the last of the animals in their pens. Aziraphale, quiet as a temple mouse, watches the camels bed down, the mice begin their nesting, the doves tucking their heads under their wings. It's a cacophony of all sorts of squawks, chirps, howls, barks, and yips. 

Aziraphale wonders if humans are built to handle this much noise for forty days and forty nights. Of course, the family has their own cabin on the deck, a place to cook and sleep and talk.

Aziraphale sneaks up to the top deck, just to observe. Already, Naamah and her daughters-in-law—Sedeqtelebab, 'Adantaneses, and Na'eltama'uk—are preparing the first supper. The scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat is a welcome change from the reek of damp hay and fur, pitch and wood.

They'll be fine, the angel thinks. They're industrious and clever and there's no real reason for him to linger.

But he does. Just in case. They're only human, after all.

The first drops of rain hit the wood. Aziraphale recalls something someone said a long time ago.

_Well, that went down like a lead balloon._

He's never been quite sure if it was a reference to the first rain or the first sin. Aziraphale often goes over it in his mind and decided it had to be about sin. An angel and a demon talking about the weather is just too absurd.

Almost as absurd as an angel losing a flaming sword. He'd given it away and rightly so. Maybe.

Crawly had asked how that worked out and now, watching the rivers swell and the sand turn to silt, the angel has to admit he's done quite the wrong thing. But it’s alright. She plans for everything and if She decides things needed to be righted, then they'll be righted.

Like She is doing now.

But the angel can’t watch. It’s too depressing to see a whole part of the Earth go underwater like that. 

He heads back down into the belly of the ship. Noah's sons have finished their tasks and now it’s just the animals and the angel.

Except no, that isn't quite right.

Aziraphale knows there's something out of place on the ark. Something that's not supposed to be here. 

He makes rounds, counting up all the animals. There's two doves, two ravens, two goats, two cows, two camels, two crocodiles, two lions, and two tigers. And he descends a level further, where the serpents and insects and all things that crawl upon the earth are housed. They’re harder to count with all the writhing and squirming. Two pythons, two vipers, two tarantulas, two scorpions, and two turtles. 

And then he finds it. 

It's not much, aside from a piece of cloth nailed to the wood, forming a sort of curtain. Without thinking, the angel begins to pull it aside.

Teeth sink into the flesh of his hand. Large teeth. Yellow eyes stare unblinking at the angel. The scales of the Serpent are black and red.

"Crawly!"

The demon lets go of Aziraphale's hand and assumes a vague man-shape again. "Sorry. Thought it was Japthet."

Aziraphale inspects the bite. Three drops of blood well up, which makes Aziraphale a bit lightheaded. He's never bled before. 

Crawly seems to notice and tears at the hem of his robe, wrapping Aziraphale's hand in the fabric. "I said I was sorry, angel."

"I forgive you, I just..." 

Crawly helps the angel sit down. "Never been hurt before. I get it."

Aziraphale closes his eyes. The nausea passes. He opens his eyes and realizes that it's not just Crawly hidden behind the curtain.

"You brought children on board?" Aziraphale asks.

"Not too loud," Crawly hisses, though it's lacking any malice. "I just got them to bed."

Aziraphale studies the sort of bedding Crawly's made up for the children. They've got straw to soften the floor and plenty of blankets to keep warm. The children hardly stir.

"Miracled them to bed." The angel nods.

"No," Crawly says. "Tucked them in proper. Told them stories."

The demon sounds tired. He's hissing without meaning to, a sort of lisping slip of the tongue. He watches the children in a manner the angel can only describe as hawk-like.

"The younger ones won't understand any of it." There's something terribly sad in Crawly's voice. "They probably think it's some grand adventure. Playing sailors and all that."

"You took them from their parents?"

"Well, I figured if killing children was what your lot decided on doing, then saving them would be thwarting you." Crawly turns that yellow gaze on Aziraphale, bright as the sun itself. "A great evil, saving the seeds of sin. Or something." 

The demon waves a hand dismissively, as if he doesn't expect Aziraphale to understand. Aziraphale silently concedes that no, he doesn't and couldn't understand.

"Just wish I could have saved more." Crawly coils up into himself. "Why do I have to pick between the goatherder's daughter who can barely walk and the priest's son who does his chores and obeys his parents?"

"How many did you rescue, Crawly?"

"Twelve. Seven girls, four boys. It's not enough, angel." The demon sighs. One of the children turns and mumbles in their sleep. Crawly cranes his neck, assessing whether he should get up and comfort the child. "'s never enough, angel."

The child goes back to sleep. All is quiet aside from the creak and groan of wood, the distant sounds of every diurnal creature bedding down to rest and every nocturnal animal waking up for the night. If the angel really tries, he can hear the deluge and the harsh barrage of waves against the ark.

"It never could be enough," Aziraphale comforts the demon. "There's no possible way you could have saved them all."

"But I saved some and that makes it worse, angel. I played God."

"How did it feel?" Aziraphale asks, genuinely curious. He wondered sometimes if it would be wrong for an angel to take a bite of the apple and See. 

"Felt like Hell," Crawly says. "Made me sick to think I got to pick who was worthy and who wasn't. 's not great, angel. I don't know how She does it."

"I suppose that's why she made us." Aziraphale traces idle patterns into the wood. "Angels are, I suppose, a second opinion."

"Why'd she want a second opinion if She's just going to get huffy with you lot?" Crawly shrugs his thin shoulders. "Never understood that. What if you said Noah was a sinner?"

"Then, I suppose, she'd pick someone else to handle the task of building the ark."

"You think she just picked the biggest family in town?"

Aziraphale swallowed. He lowered his voice. "I think She picked Noah because he's Enoch's son."

"Enoch's boy?" Crawly looks up, toward the top deck, then narrows his eyes at the angel. "Couldn't be."

Aziraphale nods, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

"Well that explains all of it," Crawly says. "She _does_ play favourites."

Aziraphale keeps nodding like his neck's broken. It's such a heretical thing to whisper, that God plays favourites up in Heaven, but the demon does have a point. 

Crawly sighs, tired. "Angel, I might turn in for the night."

Aziraphale licks his lips. "Yes. I suppose you would. Goodnight, Crawly." 

The angel leaves Crawly's little corner and begins to walk off, but he glances down at his hand, wrapped in the hem of the demon's robe. With a snap of his fingers, he miracles the fabric of Crawly’s robe back into one piece. 

It's the least he can do.

And then he ascends to the top deck. Night's fallen and the storm only darkens the sky. 

Aziraphale breathes deeply. He'd expected petrichor, that minor miracle of a dry land's thirst slaked. Instead, everything smells of brine and rot. He swallows. If a large portion of the population was going to be flooded out, he supposes the bodies would decay.

The angel's seen what drowning does to the physical vessel and it's not pleasant.

So he simply watches Noah's family. They've had their supper and bedded down for the night like the doves and the dogs. Ham seems exceptionally worried, tossing and turning until his wife half wakes, mumbles words of comfort into the man's ear, and then he returns to sleep.

And this is all that's left of humanity in this part of the world. While people die in the ocean below this family, empires will rise and fall in other parts of the world. While this family is all that's left, other people will be just starting their families and continuing on bloodlines. While this land goes fallow and salted, other parts of the world will develop trade agreements and barter for spices and shells and fabrics and tools.

It's dizzying, the scope of everything She's laid out, so Aziraphale opts not to think too hard about it.

It's not his place.

* * *

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186531802@N03/49474309098/in/photostream/)

* * *

In the morning, it continues to rain. A pity, since Aziraphale longs to watch the sun rise from behind the thick shroud of downpour. Which it won’t for another thirty-eight days. 

Already, Aziraphale is sick to disincorporation of the downpour. The pitch kept the wood dry, but it makes the angel feel lightheaded. The constant rocking upsets his balance often and his stomach less often. He'd never really thought about seasickness, of all things, on Noah's ark.

Still, he's promised he'd watch over the family and make sure they were diligent in their tasks of caring for the animals. 

Shem takes to all the hooved beasts, petting them as he feeds them hay and oats. Then he moves to the four-legged creatures, feeding them their lot as he's supposed to.

Japthet tends to the birds, smiling as the ravens spend time plucking the wolves' tails and crowing their avian laughter about it. 

He smoothes the doves' feathers out. When the peacock clucks and struts, Japthet knows just how to step around the bird to avoid a pecking or the sharp claws. The peahen watches him, unsure whether he's trustworthy until the man spreads seeds for the bird. She pecks at the seeds, her mistrust of men laid aside.

Japthet also feeds the things that go on two legs. All of the apes inspect him warily before deciding food is more interesting and accept it, hurrying off to eat in quiet contemplation.

Ham. To Ham go all the serpents that crawl upon their bellies. To Ham go all of the insects who buzz and bite, sting and swarm. To Ham go the spiders and the scorpions, their venom aimed at him until he passes over them like a spectre. These creatures require the least care, mostly Ham devotes time to resolving territorial disputes and keeping the serpents from eating each other.

He’s quite good at it, if Aziraphale allows himself to be honest.

Aziraphale follows Ham and watches from the shadows. Ham's load is the easiest, which lets him inspect the construction of the ark more than his brothers.

Nothing escapes Ham's notice. Areas left unsealed properly are noted with a simple tap to the wood and a murmuring note. Animals are counted, no matter the species, Ham always making sure there are two. No more. No less.

Ham finds the curtain. Aziraphale holds his breath, imagining the man being bitten by Crawly, who will surely be less forgiving with Noah's son. 

And then Aziraphale remembers that Noah's stern orders are that any stowaway is to be immediately thrown into the sea from the deck. The angel swallows, picturing Noah throwing these children over the side without a second of hesitation. 

"Go to sleep," Aziraphale miracles. Ham stops dead in his tracks, dazed, eyes half-lidded; the angel turns Ham away from Crawly's corner, guiding him toward the steps. "All your chores are done. Wake up from a dream about whatever sets your mind at ease." 

Aziraphale pulls the miracle down and backs away, tucked neatly into a shadow. Ham shakes his head, looks around, shrugs, and climbs the steps.

Relief creeps over Aziraphale in a sort of itching that starts along the back of his neck. Without thinking, he goes to scratch and feels the fat, hairy body of a tarantula. He throws the spider off him without thinking and it rights itself before scuttling off into the dark.

"Didn't think you had it in you," Crawly murmurs, stretching. "Thought I was going to have to bite him too."

"Yes, well, I couldn't allow it," Aziraphale says firmly. "Imagine the panic it would cause if you went around biting everyone."

Crawly nods. "I see the point. Be doing a bad thing for all the other snakes."

A viper slithers past Crawly's ankles, flicking out its tongue at the angel. Without a second thought, Crawly picks the viper up, strokes her head, and sends her back on their way. 

"I think you've done the right thing, angel." Crawly smiles, tired but easy. 

"And you've done the wrong thing."

"As it should be. A demon doing plenty of wrong and thwarting all the good in the world. Sewing seeds of strife. And an angel—"

"An angel doing as She has commanded, with minor improvisation to avoid the seeds of strife from spreading their roots." Aziraphale hesitates, then adds, "Spreading them too far, I mean."

"I know what you mean," Crawly replies. "We can't have day without night, paragons of virtue without some badness."

The curtain rustles and Crawly turns. Aziraphale smiles at the child standing there, but the child goes wide-eyed and clings to Crawly's robes.

"He doesn't bite," Crawly assures the child, carding fingers through the child's curls. "He's too much of an angel for that."

The child mumbles something. Crawly nods.

"Well, if you're hungry, I expect the others are too," Crawly’s voice is gentle, barely more than a whisper. It's a tone Aziraphale's never heard the demon use before. "Let's get you lot fed."

"There wouldn't be enough, would there?" Aziraphale asks before he can stop himself.

"I'm not going to steal Noah's bread. It's about stealth, angel. So I'm going to miracle them some breakfast."

Aziraphale hadn't thought of that. It was quite sneaky to go around using miracles so frivolously. But then, the angel doubted Crawly had ever touched an oven or even knew how to make bread. 

And if Crowly miracles them up, it would mean Crawly could lessen the likelihood of being found out. Unless Crawly’s bosses downstairs find out. Would they consider this a misuse of miracles?

On the one hand, it was terribly stealthy to go around using miracles to keep stowaway children fed. Which would make it bad.

But on the other hand, Aziraphale couldn't really see feeding starving refugee children as evil or infernal or even the slightest bit bad. It was quite a good thing.

"You hungry angel?"

Aziraphale only notices there that he is a bit peckish. And if breakfast means he gets to spend more time with Crawly, then Aziraphale can make sure the demon isn't teaching the children to, say, worship a golden calf or set up circles to commune with downstairs.

Not that the angel believes Crawly would do that, but it's the point of the thing.

"I could eat," Aziraphale answers. 

"Go get the rest of the children up, hmm?" Crawly says and the little one clinging to his robes ducks back inside.

Crawly ushers the angel in, smirking. Aziraphale brushes past Crawly and something burns its way up the angel's spine. Contact with a hereditary enemy, Aziraphale supposes. But there's something about the way Crawly places a guiding hand on the small of the angel's back that makes the angel reconsider.

So Aziraphale begins counting the children Crawly's gathered. There are, as the demon's said, exactly twelve. None are over the age of ten, but the angel's always been bad at guessing human ages. 

Some are more content to sleep, bundled up and turning over. Others get up and yawn, driven more by their empty bellies than by their fatigue. 

Crawly miracles a pot of porridge. It's laced with cinnamon and sugar and Aziraphale gives the demon a look. 

"They're kids," Crawly defends. "Kids are picky like that."

Crawly glances up to count the children already awake and begins filling bowls and passing them around to the younger ones. Slowly, every child comes to the table and Crawly makes sure they eat. 

The demon offers a bowl to the angel.

Aziraphale takes the hint and the bowl Crawly offers him. "Thank you. It's rather kind of you."

Crawly stares, unblinking, at the angel for a long moment. "Nah. It's evil. If I went around doing the right thing all the time, it'd mean you'd be doing some bad."

Aziraphale purses his lips. He hadn't thought of that. And if he was doing the wrong thing, it means he was just like Crawly. Except not, since Crawly would be doing the right things while Aziraphale was doing wrong, so they wouldn't be alike at all.

It makes the angel's head hurt to try and figure it all out, so he opts to say nothing and eat. 

Crawly seems content to watch his little flock of stowaways. It's that hawkish look Aziraphale's only seen on a serpent guarding her nest or a lion protecting her cubs. Maternal. 

It strikes him as funny that the only word Aziraphale can ascribe to the demon is "maternal." He knows demons don't abide by the same rules as humans, so he's seen Crawly dressed more feminine but Aziraphale's never really thought of the Serpent as motherly.

And yet that's exactly how Aziraphale would describe Crawly now. No other word quite explains it, the care and the attention and the fierce protectiveness. Aziraphale has no doubt that harming one of these children would mean being disincorporated painfully by Crawly.

"You're attached to them," Aziraphale notes, softly. 

"Kids are like that, angel," Crawly dismisses with a wave of his hand. "It's the reason She made them, right? Get humans all gooey in the centre, pass on all the traditions and values."

"Children are just the outcome of the primal drives every animal has," Aziraphale points out. "Every species wants to procreate."

"Even angels?" Crawly asks, studying Aziraphale.

The angels stammers, unsure how to answer. He's heard about those angels who go on having affairs and children with humans. And he's heard enough horror stories about demonic cults trying to raise up the Antichrist.

"I'm only kidding, angel." Crawly gathers the empty dishes and miracles them away. "You've got the parental instincts of a rock."

"And you're very maternal."

Crawly smirks. "You think so? Maybe I should start an orphanage then. With some Satanic nuns. Teach all the little ones how to raise hell and praise Satan."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest but Crawly interrupts before Aziraphale can say a word.

"Again, I'm only kidding." One of the children comes to Crawly for attention and Crawly holds the little one without a second of hesitation. The demon miracles a rag, wiping the child’s face clean. "Nun's habit doesn't really suit me, does it, angel?"

Aziraphale does try to picture Crawly as a nun. It comes off as quite ridiculous, especially since the Serpent's eyes are so...demonic. "No. I suppose it wouldn't."

But the angel watches Crawly idly combing the child's curls free of tangles. Perhaps an orphanage could be run outside of nuns and monks needing to raise up little servants to scrub floors. Spare the rod, spoil the child and all that.

"Don't you have work to be doing?" Crawly asks, glancing up at the angel. "Guarding Noah and his sons and all that."

"Well, they don't need much guarding," Aziraphale answers. "They're getting along fine. You know how humans are."

Crawly makes a noncommittal noise. 

"But, I should go see how the rain's coming along, and all that. Make sure it's nice and properly flooded down there."

Crawly raises a brow at the angel, but says nothing more. Aziraphale leaves Crawly's little corner. Or is it more of a nest, Aziraphale wonders. A home? A shack? He leaves Crawly's corner and goes up to the top deck, pacing.

The rain's coming along nicely. In sheets. In droves. A proper downpour. She's even made thunder and lighting for the occasion. 

The angel counts the time between flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. They’re rapid, only a couple seconds apart. The thunder shakes the sky overhead and the angel thinks this might be some sort of interventions.

But She does not say a word.

It's supposed to be late morning, but it's so overcast it might as well be night again. The angel imagines all this doom and gloom must be wreaking havoc on the humans' internal clocks. And the diurnal animals must be getting sick of the rain already and the darkness. 

From below, one of the dogs whimpers at the thunder that makes the whole sky quake. It whines, high and hysterical.

Aziraphale steps down again, but sticks to the first floor in the belly of the ship. The dogs cower, finding solace in each other, licking each other's muzzles and barking at the thunder. 

The domestic cats brush against the angel's ankles, purring for comfort. 

The ravens think it's quite funny to imitate the rumble of thunder. Between rumbles, the ravens imitate the sound, cawing when it makes the dogs bark and yelp. The female raven hops down from her perch and pulls one of the dogs' tails, screeching when the dog jumps and yelps.

Aziraphale becomes aware, slowly, of how many animals will need meat to sustain them and how much meat they'll require. Surely the crocodiles will want to eat and the goats can hardly breed at the same rate as the mice are currently doing. The lions already look starved, and the dogs will be sick of chasing the cats around simply for fun soon enough. 

He thinks briefly of the children, how helpless they would be if they fell into the crocodiles' pen. They're in no position to fight off a lioness with her large paws and sharp teeth. The hawks have talons longer than most of those children's fingers. 

So he's really doing a good thing when he begins to miracle down flesh for the predators. He tosses a large share for the lions. The lion drags it to his lioness and rolls onto his side. She eats, watching the angel warily. 

The hawks are content to take their time, tearing strips of sinew and fat to eat. It's rather graceful how efficient they are at stripping the bones. 

The vultures crack those open, eating the shards and marrow without a second thought. Any bones left over entice the dogs, who defer to the vultures before taking the leftovers. 

Aziraphale isn't quite sure what to do about the snakes, since they refuse bloody meat. The other lizards are more keen on it, some species taking it right out of his hands. Others turn tail at the meat in favour of fruits and greenery.

Most of the creatures under Ham's care are patient in waiting for their meals to spawn more offspring. Flies and mice breed quickly to feed their bellies and nests and webs. So Aziraphale's more concerned with how to make a spider less venomous or how to blunt a scorpion's tail without killing the thing. 

Before he realizes it, he's standing between Crawly's nest and the rest of the lower hold. The angel ascends a level before the demon can notice it too.

He goes topside to check on Noah's family. Surely, by now, they've settled in for a midday meal. 

And from the cabin comes the smell of roasting meat, stewing vegetables, the lingering incense they've brought to praise Her doing and Her bounty they've been blessed with. It's almost more powerful than the rotting saltwater that clings to the angel and seeps into his robes.

He could live in a cloud of that incense, the deep musk of plants and earth and yet the slightest spice to ensure She knows it’s made to honour Her.

The angel does wonder if she receives every prayer. Surely there must be so many at once. How many voices did She hear beg Her for their lives during the Flood? How many burned incense of their own? How many made sacrifices?

What makes Noah and Namaah's offerings more worthy than anyone else's?

If there is some sort of divine inbox, Aziraphale hopes She oversees all of it directly. The idea of archangels or even The Metatron determining which prayers She receives unsettles Aziraphale. No one but Her should determine who is and isn't worthy.

Then again, She decreed that Noah and his kin were more worthy than any other human in this corner of the world.

It feels like Falling to think like this.

So Aziraphale decides to stop thinking about who is or isn't worthy or whose offerings are better. It's written down. And unknowable to an angel. He's supposed to serve and do the right thing and not bother with the ethical problems.

He breathes in incense and breathes out his doubts.

Noah and his kin are settled at their table for the midday meal. They've praised her, role models of morality. There's plenty at their table to eat, plenty to drink to keep them from turning to seawater. Everything is as it should be.

Except for Crawly and his den. They're the disruption in the plan.

Aziraphale shakes his head, the warm rain doing wonders to help him stop pondering in circles. If it's part of Her plan, it'll work out and if not, She'll correct it in the way She sees fit.

And he spends the next couple of days in a sort of blessed ignorance. The angel watches from the shadows as the animals play and prowl and howl and squawk. The mice and rats were repopulating nicely from their nests and the rabbits were getting the jump on their own efforts. One of the spiders had already eaten her mate.

Namaah and her daughters prepared such enviable meals with the supplies they had been given. Aziraphale always thought human women were especially talented at making little stretch into plenty. Truly, necessity was the mother of innovation. Not the father.

Noah's sons did their chores, feeding and tending all the animals in their allotted care. Shem placed hay for the camels and the horses. Japthet had taken a liking to one of the ravens, the hen, who repeated words when offered a smuggled crust of bread.

On the lowest level of the ark, Aziraphale thought Ham might try to creep into Crawly's corner again. The angel was ready to use another miracle to coax the man away, but he seemed to simply shrug and go about his rounds quickly, as if he couldn't wait to be out of the spiderwebs and serpent nests.

Whatever Aziraphale did to Ham seemed to have convinced him to say away from Crawly's corner. Suspiciously, the other creeping insects and slithering serpents avoided it as well. Everything that was deadly to small children gave the Serpent's den a wide berth. 

One of the scorpions, a fat brown thing with pincers to rival a lobster, raises its tail towards that nook of the ark. It takes three paces toward the Serpent's corner, then lowers its stinger, passive as a lamb.

Aziraphale picks up the insect and turned it around, where the scorpion scuttles off in a lazy zig-zag into the dark.

"Angel," Crawly says.

Aziraphale turned around. "Crawly. What have you done to these poor creatures?"

"Nothing at all," Crawly insists. "I did something to the den though."

The angel raises a brow. He crosses his arms and tries to look stern with the Serpent. Crawly doesn't seem the least bit interested, gathering his long red curls into a bun, tying his hair up.

"The children decided they're hungry," Crawly says, unprompted as if that was a proper invitation. 

"Still miracling things up for them?"

"And you." Crawly rolls his eyes. "If you want a bite."

Crawly seems so perfectly innocent in inviting the angel to breakfast. And the thought crosses Aziraphale's mind that this is temptation. That the beauty he finds in the stray curls that frame The Serpent's face and the flash of freckled forearm must be wrong. 

That's what The Serpent's always done. Tempt. 

And tempting an angel must receive quite the commendation downstairs. It has to be one of the most evil things any demon could do.

"Angel?"

"Yes, no. I don't think so. Not this morning."

Crawly raises a brow, silently asking.

"Well, you're tempting me."

"All the tempting is your stomach," Crawly says. "For an angel, you're a glutton. Beelz would love you downstairs, you hedonistic thing."

Aziraphale blinks. He supposes that is an insult but he couldn't quite tell with the demon. There is, after all, a playful smirk on Crawly's face that implies he was just teasing the angel.

"Breakfast?" Crawly asks again, crossing his arms over his chest. "Poor angel must be peckish from all that evil thwarting and whatnot."

"I think it'd be best if I didn't."

"Oh. You're too good for something miracled up? I was thinking something indulgent and sweet." 

Aziraphale swallows. He loves sweet things terribly, the richness of honey and the raw saccharine of sugar. But still, angels should not be tempted by demons.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale looks around guiltily, as if someone from upstairs might be taking notes. "Alright. I'll join you."

The Serpent smiles so honestly it lights up his whole face. "I'm not a terrible cook."

"It's not what I'd call cooking."

Aziraphale follows The Serpent inside and it seems Crawly's been using more miracles. The space is larger with proper beds for every child. And Crawly's miracles them a table to fit everyone. The angel notes the thirteenth place at the table but says nothing.

Aziraphale watches two children playing some game the angel's never quite understood except that it must be fun and includes plenty of running.

There's toys, too. The children play with all manner of doll and some are content to push carts with working (if squeaky, but Crawly fixes that in a snap) wheels. 

"You're spoiling them," Aziraphale notes.

"Me? Never." It's sarcastic. Crawly knows these children are spoiled. "They're happy, angel."

"Sometimes happiness is different from being spoiled."

Crawly rolls his eyes as he miracles up breakfast. "You should write parenting manuals. I'm sure the humans would love it. Spare the child, spoil the rod. It's how She raised you, right?"

"Don't be so bitter," Aziraphale says. 

Something flashes in The Serpent's eyes. It's a touch of hurt and then it's gone, replaced by a cool mask. 

"Children," Crawly calls. "To the table."

And, to the angel's surprise, they obey. It's plenty of running and giggling, but not a single one of Crawly's brood hesitates to come to the table for breakfast.

They take their places at the table, grinning.

"Thank you, mama," a couple say before digging in. Others go straight to eating.

"You don't have them say grace?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crawly stares at the angel for a long moment. "Angel, what am I?"

"Right." Aziraphale licks his lips, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now eat before it gets cold."

Aziraphale notes Crawly's place at the table is empty aside from a cup of tea. Aziraphale eats slowly, using all the politeness he can. The child across from him copies him, though clumsily, and Crawly snickers. 

"I think some manners would suit them," Aziraphale defends.

"Angel, some of them haven't even lost their first tooth."

Aziraphale stares, disbelieving, at The Serpent. He didn't know humans did that.

"Oh it's a whole thing, angel." Crawly sips his tea. "You could learn a bit from humans.”

The angel huffs and finishes eating. He feels the demon’s stare on him, but Aziraphale does not show he knows Crawly is watching him. 

With everyone’s dishes cleared, Aziraphale gathers the dishes while Crawly wipes down messy mouths and braids tangles of wild hair. Slowly, the angel realizes they achieve something akin to domesticity like this. No fighting, no real thwarting. Maybe it’s this secret between them—Aziraphale’s need to do the right thing and Crawly’s need to be right—that keeps them civil.

Or maybe civility started as a truce during that first rain. 

The children wander off, back to playing, and the demon miracles the dishes away. 

“Aziraphale, you’re not getting attached are you?” Crawly’s voice carries a smugness. 

“Not at all.” 

Crawly hums. “Pity. Some of them started calling you Uncle Angel.”

“A dreadful nickname.”

Crawly chuckles. “Do you think I’ve done the wrong thing?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answers. “Defying Her like that? I’m only surprised Gabriel hasn’t come down here to lecture you.”

“Gabriel.” The demon spits the name as if it’s something bitter and foul. “What’s he know about right and wrong?”

Aziraphale shrugs. Nothing, he supposes. Not the way Aziraphale knows goodness sometimes contains little loopholes that cause headaches or the way the wrong thing can be the right thing.

“I don’t think he knows a single thing,” the angel admits to the demon.

* * *

The prey animals could only be so fruitful so fast and Aziraphale finds himself worrying again. Would a lion deep in its starvation understand the difference between kid and child? Would hounds be content with mice for meals? How would spiders feed their young without moths or flies to fill their webs?

Aziraphale realizes he’s never really seen a human die in front of him. That worries him more.

So what was a couple minor miracles? And the Almighty did say to protect Noah and his kin. So feeding the animals of predation would be doing them a service. Preventative care since humans have such a long time before they develop better disinfectants.

He watches the way the crocodiles cooperate: one holding down the meat and the other rolling to snap bone, tear the tendons. They trade places to fill their bellies. Aziraphale tries not to think about the ease of which this married pair could rip a child’s arm from shoulder.

The angel tosses dead hares he’s miracles to the hounds, who bark their grace and tuck in. The angel repressed the image of hound teeth around a child’s throat.

Dusting the spider’s webs with struggling moths. Before his eyes, those sleep fangs sink in and lull the insects to sleep, swaddling them thickly in silk. He pushes the spiderbites he’s seen on adults out of his mind.

A stitch in time saves nine, the angel thought to himself. Noah and his sons and Namah and her daughters had nothing to fear from any of these beasts. Not lion. Not scorpion. Not serpent.

And that small darkness in him hisses that Crawly’s brood is equally safe from gnashing teeth and venomous jaw. Aziraphale lets the small darkness warm him, like the last sooty ember of a dying fire. It begs the angel to visit the Serpent, bed down next to Crawly. 

“We’re not broody hens,” Aziraphale huffs to it. 

In the dark belly of the ark, the rooster preens the hen as they nest for the night.

* * *

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186531802@N03/49474772071/in/photostream/)

* * *

The angel doesn’t understand the need for fifteen more days of rain. Already, separating the rivers from the seas is so difficult as to be impossible. It the water hasn’t made the land entirely a waste of clay and sand, then the salinity must have devastated it. The angel wonders how Noah, a sower of grapes and wheat, a man of the field, is supposed to survive on salted soil. 

And then he remembers the Almighty’s plans are ineffable and that makes it easier to quell the rising panic he feels.

Instead, he fixates on how ingenious human women are, how Namah guides her daughter-in-law away from wastefulness. Meat eaten down to bones becomes broth for stew. Bread gone stale becomes stuffing or a thickener for soup. Namah, matriarch, is so wise in knowing how to avoid overusing the herbs in her kitchen, rationing every portion so frugally to make things last.

The angel is impressed. He wonders how humans find mates so clever.

He watches Namah's daughters-in-law—Sedeqtelebab, 'Adantaneses, and Na'eltama'uk—in their lessons of frugality. They took to it quickly, though Na'eltama'uk stumbled the most in her caution. 

The darkness in Aziraphale raises a dark head, whispering that Crawly is just as clever. And the angel agreed there was something crafty in the way the demon bound up all the bureaucracy of upstairs and downstairs with a single brood of children. It is terribly efficient. 

It isn't until later that he realizes two things. 

First, that small dark corner in him wants Crawly to be his mate the same way Namah is Noah's; yearns for the neatness of four letters on his tongue from the back of his mouth to the angel's front teeth. 

Second, and more damning, the small darkness has been there from The Start. It's certainly been shaped by Crawly and his wiles, but the demon did not place it there. That scares Aziraphale, this damning, whispering shadow in him.

So he corrals it back into its place deep in the back of his mind and locks it away so tightly it aches.

* * *

Crawly makes an exceptional parent. Aziraphale feels useless and slow, overwhelmed by the children's demands.

"He took—"

"She's being mean!"

"She said—"

"He pushed me over!"

"Can you—?"

"I need—"

"I want it!"

Aziraphale is helpless. Every time he solves one problem, there's three more sprouting.

But Crawly—radiant Crawly—ties his hair up and solves each problem with ease. No miracles, simply compromise and gently explaining why it's rude to take toys or pull hair or call names. When the littlest wants to be held, Crawly keeps the child on one hip, held as if they weigh nothing.

The Serpent turns, mindful of the child on his hip, smiling. Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. 

Somehow, the demon manages to get twelve children bathed and ready for bed. He tucks in twelve children while Aziraphale tries—and fails—to make himself useful. 

At last, each child sleeps deeply, leaving the angel and the demon awake and alone.

"Wine, angel?" The demon miracles up a jug.

"Feeding children is one thing, Crawly, but wine?"

"Hedonism," Crawly justifies with a shrug. "They'll let me write it off."

Aziraphale tries to looks disappointed as he shakes his head. But the demon pours two cups and the angel takes one.

"Sorry it's nothing fancy, angel."

"It's fine." It's the first wine the angel's had in days. Nothing could ever be so perfect. "I appreciate it."

They sit at the table, drinking quietly and saying nothing. The silence is easy, companionable. Crawly perks up at the slightest snore or snuffle from the children.

"What's your secret?" Aziraphale asks after his glass is refilled for a fourth time. More demonic miracles, the angel knows, but he over looks it. "They listen to you."

"The secret is to talk to them, angel. Children are people, just smaller. More creative." The demon smirks, not smugly but in a worn and honestly proud way. He gestures with the cup, wine threatening to spill over the earthenware rim. "If you tell them why you want them to eat their greens or why it's time to put away their toys, then they'll do it."

"Even the little ones?"

The Serpent drains his cup, nods, then refills it. "Especially the little ones."

Aziraphale looks down at his cup of wine, mulling it over. He's never been particularly good with children and, thankfully, upstairs has decided anything to do with them is Gabriel's sphere. He drains his cup and tries not to think about what Gabriel would do to these children. Toss them in the sea, Aziraphale thinks, or turn them to pillars of salt.

"Upstairs hasn't got wind of this?"

The angel blinks. He shakes his head. "Not that I've heard."

Crawly watches the children sleep. "Good."

"What about, erm, downstairs? I suppose you've received quite the commendation."

"Only Ligur coming up to tell me that raising kids isn't particularly devilish and that Beelzebub is getting sick of all these miracles." Crawly grins.

"And you explained it to them?"

"Told them upstairs decided everyone was sinful, so picking up a handful of the good-est orphans and teaching them to worship demons was practically saving our stake in this corner of the world." 

The angel rolls his eyes. "Of course."

"Told him we had a golden calf and everything."

"Crawly!"

The demon gets up, rummaging quietly through the toys on the floor until he finds it. He brings the wooden thing to the table with pride. Aziraphale sees the golden paint, messily slopped on, peeling. The angel stares at the demon.

"'s not like I could make a whole new one like with Moses and the mountain and whatnot," Crawly defends

The angel smooths out the peeling paint, properly gilding the calf with a minor miracle. The demon blinks a few times, no longer grinning.

"In case Beelzabub comes up here personally," Aziraphale says. "And it's a good thing because I'm saving your children from eating paint and fixing their toys."

Crawley raises a brow, but says nothing. Aziraphale feels suddenly self-conscious.

"Well if you don't like it—"

"Love it," Crawley admits. "Couldn't be more sinful."

Aziraphale scoffs. "I'm surprised it's not a serpent, knowing you."

"I'm not that vain." The demon shrugs. "Golden calves will do just fine. I'm not really looking to make them into little demons, angel."

"Oh? Then what are you trying to do?"

"Save a few kids who didn't deserve to be killed off for things they couldn't even understand." Crawly's voice cracks. "'s not fair, angel."

"It's not about fair," Aziraphale says. Then he immediately regrets having said it.

"What's it about, then? All this...stuff?" Crawly turns those accusing yellow eyes on the angel. "If it's not about fair, then what's it all about?"

"It's..." Azirapahle finds himself defensive, searching for any answer he's been given to justify himself. "It's ineffable."

The demon sighs and throws his hands up and makes a sound like "ngk" in his frustration.

"I wish I knew," Aziraphale admits. "But I don't know and you don't know, so I think we have to just keep doing whatever we think is best."

"What if I did the good thing and you did the bad?" Crawly asks. "Are angels capable of that? Doing bad?"

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest. "If angels are able to enact evil, then I'm sure your lot—

"My lot?"

"Your lot are capable of doing good."

Crawly sighs and gestures to the children. "I think we're the only two who can do good and bad in turns like this. We're on a side all our own, angel." 

"No," Aziraphale says firmly. "I'm not on any side with you. We're enemies, we have to be."

"Do we?" 

And a silence settles over them. Crawly is attractive in the lights of this little corner of the ark, candlelight and hearthlight catching the russet shine of the demon's long hair. For the first time, Aziraphale notices Crawly's eyes are not so much yellow as they are a sort of gold. And since when were demons allowed to take on human things, like the freckles over the Serpent's cheeks and nose?

"We have to be enemies," Aziraphale repeats, getting up from Crawly's table. "Otherwise there wouldn't be sides to take at all."

"Mmh." Crawly turns his gaze toward the hearth, the low burning timber turned to embers. "Guess so."

"Goodnight, Crawly."

"G'night...Aziraphale."

* * *

The rain stops all at once, divinely halted. Aziraphale says a small prayer. He’d been rather sick of rain, the constant thrum against the ark. Somehow, the silence is worse. He tries not to think about it, opting to listen for the squawks and shrieks from the lower decks, the groan of wood as the ark rolls on the waves. 

Crawly’s children must be terribly bored down there. The angel knows that nook is infernally expanded, made into a properly-sized home, but there’s no fresh air, no sunshine—even though dawn won’t break for a good twelve hours—no space for them to run like normal children do.

The angel watches Naamah and her kin settle in for supper, the meal accompanied by wine. And the wine sews the seed of an idea. 

It’s going to be a nightmare to try and justify this one to Upstairs.

With just a minor miracle, the alcohol strengthens. It’d be enough to stagger a horse. And Aziraphale wonders if he might’ve overdone it on this instead of simply making the pitcher refill itself with fresh wine, sweet and cold. That in itself would have been some form of omen, some blessing. 

But it’s too late, the family is drinking. Aziraphale works another miracle to make the wine so sweet and cold and fresh it would seem to be divine intervention. 

All he can do is wait.

The family prays, laughs. Naamah burns incense as thanks, as if she lives in a temple and not a boat floating above the ruins of civilization. 

In pairs, the sons stagger off with their wives. Each couple beds down, murmuring honey sweetness. Ham gets the most rowdy, drunk with a pride Aziraphale’s never seen before. Na'eltama'uk giggles as she pushes Ham down into their bed to sleep off the divine intoxication.

It doesn’t take long until the family is deeply asleep, wine-drunk and soothed. And when no Gabriel or Michael shows up to scold him, Aziraphale assumes he’s done the right thing. What could be better a better omen than the wine becoming rich and sweet and strong, for the family to have a deep rest on the first calm night?

So he steps down, to the lowest level of the ship. He knocks on the curtained frame of the demon’s nest.

“Angel?” Crawly says, parting the curtain. Crawly’s hair flows long and loose about his shoulders and Aziraphale takes a second to compose himself.

“Noah and his family are asleep.”

“Humans do that, yeah.”

“I got them drunk, Crawly. I figured the children might like to get some fresh air,” Aziraphale replies, words spilling out of the angel as he rushes to explain. 

“You did what?” The surprise is clear on the Serpent’s face. It’s the same sort of shock as the Serpent finding out the angel gave away his flaming sword. 

“I strengthened the wine,” Aziraphale answers, wringing his hands out of habit. “It was for the children to come up and play for a bit.” Aziraphale bites his tongue to keep from adding _And to give you a break._

Crawly glances over his shoulder, jaw slack and eyes wide. Slowly, the Serpent composes himself, stammering in his scramble to find something to say.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for the older ones to see the stars,” Crawly murmurs, something soft and maternal in the Serpent’s voice. “Lor—Sat—Someone knows they could do with some time outside after being cooped up for so long.” 

The angel's resolve weakens. Maybe there is a side of their own, one without hereditary enemies or needing to justify deeds as being more good or evil. He offers a hand to Crawly. 

The Serpent takes it, grinning at the angel. "I'm starting to think you fancy me, angel."

Aziraphale splutters, face hot. 

"I'm only kidding, angel." Crawly smoothes out his robe. "Let me wake the children."

* * *

The children are loud, rowdy, playing all sorts of imagined games around the ship's rigging. The angel wonders if he really has done the bad thing bringing them up here. But a simple warning from Crawly guides them away from danger.

Crawly notices Namaah first and he coils protectively around the child, like a cobra ready to strike. But instead of her raising her voice or her hand against Crawly’s child, Namaah sinks to her knees and weeps. 

Aziraphale, uncertain, silently looks at Crawly. 

But Namaah speaks before the angel can say a single thing. “I thought every child was dead, that I would have to wait for grandchildren to hear such carefree laughter.”

Aziraphale helps the woman up. Namaah dries her tears as she looks at the sleeping toddler in Crawly’s arms. 

"The moment I heard, I prayed for the children to be spared," Namaah admits. "I prayed that our Lord would not be so unkind as to shed the blood of children."

She reaches a hand out to cup the child's cheek. The child turns, face buried in Crawly's chest.

"How many did you save?" Namaah asks. 

"As many as we could," Aziraphale says.

Crawly rolls his eyes. "You told me it was a bad idea. Told me it was the wrong thing to do. You don’t get to say we and take all the credit"

The angel turns bright red. He stammers for a moment before correcting himself. "As many as Crawly could."

"Crawly?" Namaah eyes the Serpent suspiciously.

"It's, ah, French?"

"What he means is," Aziraphale cuts in, "we're not from, er, around here."

"I figured," Namaah says. "You're angels."

Crawly laughs. Aziraphale shoots the Serpent a withering look.

"Sorry, ah." Crawly adjusts the weight of the child in his arms. "Little help, angel? This is your department, after all."

Aziraphale takes Namaah by the shoulders, putting her into a trance with a minor miracle. "You're dreaming of whatever you like best and you'll wake in the morning refreshed."

"You could've just put her to sleep." 

"I panicked," Aziraphale defends. "They're the last bastion of humanity here and I didn't want to...to turn her into a pillar of salt or something."

The angel guides Namaah back to her cabin. Without prompting, the woman lays beside her husband, falling into a deep sleep. 

"Well, I think this is a right mess," Crawly says, adjusting the toddler in his arms. 

Aziraphale nods, wringing his hands. He wasn't technically supposed to be seen by Noah and his kin, but Upstairs hadn't quite laid out the punishment for being seen.

"But I think it'll turn out alright," Crawly assures the angel. "On the bright side, seeing angels might make them more devout."

"Or it could have harmful effects later on."

"I don't think so." Crawly glances at the stars fondly. "I think, if we're still keeping tally, you've done a good thing. You're always doing good things."

"And, if it makes you feel better, I think you do an excellent job of making trouble."

"Hereditary enemies, hmm?"

"Something like that," Aziraphale agrees.

* * *

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186531802@N03/49474998162/in/photostream/)

* * *

Aziraphale looks through the birds. He needs to find one that will symbolize hope. The ravens had been no help, taking off and refusing to return. So the angel must deliver the proper messenger. Something intelligent.

The doves are pretty and intelligent. They'd be the best for the job.

Except the hen is brooding. The egg can't be left cold for three days. It would never survive.

Aziraphale considers the male dove. He's just as handsome as his mate, with whiter feathers. He preens, seemingly for the angel. He's the perfect bird.

As the angel goes to take the dove from his roost, the tomcat has the same idea, pouncing a fraction of a second before the angel can. In a flurry of feathers and noise, the dove topples, the cat's claws landing a rather nasty scratch over Aziraphale's wrist.

The dove, in its fight, topples to the wood, something cracking. Aziraphale grabs the tomcat, holding it at arm's length. While the dove coos and struggles, the angel picks up the poor bird.

Aziraphale sets the tomcat down, where he stalks off with his tail between his legs. The cat licks his paw, considering the angel coldly.

"You poor thing," Aziraphale murmurs.

Inspecting the dove, the angel has no doubts the wing is broken. Just tracing the flight feathers makes the thing struggle in the angel's hold.

He's never been good with animals, especially wounded ones. 

But Aziraphale knows who'd be perfect with a wounded dove. 

Cradling the bird to his chest, Aziraphale descends deeper into the ark's belly. Snakes slither past, tongues flicking out to taste the wounded creature in the angel's hands.

The angel considers knocking, but instead enters Crawly's den unannounced. He's not quite prepared for the sight of Crawly with his hair tied up, the children in a circle around The Serpent as Crawly recites some of the more mundane stories about a man from Nazareth.

"Angel?" Crawly asks, looking up at Aziraphale. "What's the matter?"

"I've messed up. I'm a terrible angel."

"Aziraphale?"

The angel places the dove on the table, where the bird struggles for a moment before giving up. 

"It's got a broken wing," one of the children says.

"I'm beginning to doubt the necessity of cats," the angel answers.

Crawly notices the claw marks in the angel's wrist. This time, The Serpent takes down his hair, the scrap of silk tied around the scratches.

"I don't think you're a bad angel, for what it's worth," Crawly says. "Just a clumsy one."

Crawly smoothes a hand over the bird's wing, the dove's bones healing as if there'd never been a fracture in the first place. The Serpent holds out the bird, who coos appreciatively. "Here. Take him."

The angel does, holding the dove firmly but not roughly. "You're a miracle-worker, Crawly."

And there's a moment where they both pause, recognize the irony of the compliment, and share a cautious chuckle.

* * *

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186531802@N03/49474286633/in/photostream/)

* * *

"So that's what a rainbow looks like?" Crawly asks.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Aziraphale beams, transfixed by the colors arcing across the sky.

"Shame we probably won't see more of them." 

"Crawly?"

"Angel."

Aziraphale watches Noah and his kin setting up the first of their tents, making offerings for being spared. They'll need to sow fields of wheat and orchards for wine. Already two of the wives are expecting.

"What'll happen to the children? Your children, I mean," Aziraphale asks finally. 

"Well, there's another mountaintop a hop, skip, and a jump away. They'll grow up there just fine." Crawly shrugs. "I'll have to stay with them until they're grown enough to take care of themselves."

"You're a good parent, I think," Aziraphale admits. "They're happy. Healthy, I think."

"Thanks, angel."

For a while, they watch the rainbow. It doesn't do much but linger and add a touch of color to the clear sky.

"You could come with me, if you'd like," Crawly offers. "I'm sure Noah and his kids will be fine."

"I'm afraid I'm not very good with children," the angel answers. "I'm more likely to get in the way than to actually help."

"Maybe." Crawly hums in thought. "You could visit, if you'd like. An occasional thwarting between hereditary enemies."

"Something like that," the angel says with a small smile. "It would be nice to see them grow up."

"They grow quick." Crawly sighs. "Too quick."

"I promise to come visit," Aziraphale says firmly. "I doubt there's much thwarting of wiles to be done here for a time yet."

Crawly smiles at the angel, saying nothing.

* * *

Centuries later, after a boy in Tadfield prevents the apocalypse, in a smoky and dimply-lit pub, an angel and a demon order bottles of wine and argue over a tally kept on bar napkins over who did more good and who did more evil when it rained for forty days and forty nights.


End file.
